It was dusk and I was standing outside the bus terminal talking to someone I don't know. She was smoking cheap cigarettes, looked like someone who could be paid to tell everything she knew and we shared a half pint of Muscatel I had chambered in a paper sack. We were chatting amicably when a black Porsche with dealer tags slid into the parking lot. Driving was a young black male, MLB hat, about 26 1/2years old, and next to him a young white female, blonde, who reminded me of a jaded American Airlines attendant. I could see she was crying. Her door opened, she got out, said nothing, slammed it and walked towards us.
The Porsche crept away and she pulled a cell phone from her purse and started jabbering, interrupting her conversation only long enough to bum a cigarette from my new friend. About 32 seconds later, the Porsche pulled back into the parking lot and she walked over.
The driver lowered his window and handed her a small knit bag. She took it, turned on her heels, and disappeared into the bowels of the terminal passing a guy who was wearing a newspaper shirt and a masking tape hat. As the Porsche sped off in the direction of Wilshire I noticed there was something on the ground near where he had parked and I walked over and picked it up. It was a quarter, solid silver, 1959. My new new buddy and I finished the box of wine and I gave her ten bucks to watch for union organizers and tell me everything. She said she would but I knew she was lying. I stubbed out the smoke we were sharing into her forehead and walked across the street to my rental, a flat back 2009 Suburban with a 454 and glass darker than legal. I could hear .9mm reports in the distance and I smelled fresh human feces. I got in, chambered a hollow point into a Glock .40 I don't claim to own and flipped on the interior lights momentarily to insure no unwanted riders. I then drove to Redondo Beach in total silence where I am staying in a suite on the water. I gave my bag and a twenty to the bellman, told him the park the beast and went straight to the bar where I ordered a $24 glass of Cabernet, drank half of it and poured the rest out the window into the ocean.
"Big Joe," as he likes to be called, was filling my doorway and the light from the hall was obliterated by his six foot five frame onto which he's packed on about 350 pounds, no fat. He looks like he lifts motors for a living and maybe he did at one point in time when there were still cars being made in this country. Now he wears a black jacket with "Security" embroidered on the back in yellow.
"You ready to go, Big Joe?" I said, looking up.
"Whenever you're ready, Mister Jim," he said, snapping to attention. "How's your case going, sir?" he asked, and I could see in his eyes he was already wondering if he should be so bold, whether this kind of inquiry was wise.
"They revere me, Big Joe," I replied.
"Revere? Who's Revere?" he asked nervously, looking around as if this Revere fellow might be a spy, or worse.
I smiled knowingly. "Yes, Revere. You might know him. I believe his name is Paul Revere."
"Fuck no! I don't know him!" he snapped. "Do want me to hurt him?" a question Big Joe asked with some regularity.
"He's history," I said, trying not to laugh in his face.
"God damned right he's history!" Big Joe barked. "When I find that motha-fucka Revere he'll be history all right!"
"Good, good, Big Joe. You make sure he gets what he deserves," I said, mocking sincerity.
"You need help to your vehicle tonight, Mr. Jim?" Big Joe asked approaching my desk slowly.
"No, not tonight, but thank you. I have my little helper with me," I replied, pulling the Glock .40 from a Zero Halliburton attache, jamming in a clip and chambering a round all in about a half a second.
"Damned, Mr. Jim, that's a nice gun," Big Joe slathered.
I stood up, reached over the desk and slapped him hard against his sweaty bald head. His face was a mask of terror.
"This," I said, calmly raising the Glock between his eyes, "is not a gun. This is a pistol."
He nodded, but I could see even as he was staring down the dangerous end of the barrel that he was still admiring the weapon.
"Big Joe, I want you have this when we're finished here," I said, lowering the pistol graciously.
"You don't mean it, Mr. Jim," his voice quivered. I could tell Joe had been fucked over so many times that he figured this was just another fuck in that long list.
"I do mean it, Big Joe, but there's one condition. Nothing can happen to me.
Nothing. I can't stand senseless violence. Do you understand me?" I asked, no emotion, as I stared into his soul-dead eyes.
"Yes sir, Mister Jim! I understand. Ain't nothin' goin' to happen to you! I want that gun… err… I mean pistol, sir."
"Good, Big Joe. Now, get the fuck out of here. I'm busy."
I looked up from my desk and he was gone but I could hear his Chuck Taylor's slapping the linoleum sloppy as he made his way down the hall.
"Ayeeee!" the scream was primal.
"You best tell me where Paul Revere is, God damned you!" I could hear Big Joe screaming.
Then I heard what sounded like a person being slammed through a sheetrock wall, mostly because it was a person being slammed through a sheetrock wall.
I laughed to myself and got up, shoved the Glock into my belt, and walked into the night.
LAX is perhaps the dirtiest, most unfriendly piece of shit airport in the world, and that is saying something. Even the best airports, like Amsterdam and Singapore,are no more than long crowded hallways filled with gemcracks and the harried soulless who have been beaten senseless by corporate America but read theW all Street Journal anyway. And these fools are punctuated by the truly evil who wear uniforms and badges that say things like, "May I help you?" but in a special way to make sure you understand clearly that they don't mean it.
The main airport into Los Angeles is different than most, older and dirtier, an architectural nightmare built long before interminable security lines were invented to make us all feel better about our total vulnerability. And, to make matters worse at LAX there is no legal way to move from one terminal to another and stay inside security -- a real problem for those who despise the General Public and count the number of steps to the next airline club. There is little worse in this world than clutching a United Airlines ticket at LAX and needing to get into the Delta Crown Room.
But, today I didn't let the law stop me.
As I approached the angry, brooding, bored and bitter TSA twelve dollar an hour ticket taker, I smiled kindly and handed her my ticket and passport. She was glum but almost immediately became gleeful. "No way, Mister! This is the Delta terminal and you are on United. I can't let you in." She smiled because it was one of the few times each day she could screw one of those she believed (rightfully) had screwed her and left her looking like an elephant dressed in a pretend police uniform.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," I apologized insincerely. "I didn't know. It is my first time here," I lied.
"Well, that don't matter," she motioned dismissively. "You go on ʻround that corner right there and it will put you back outside security where you belong."
I nodded politely but said nothing. As I rounded the corner, I stopped, turned and waited until I could see she had let another 3 or 4 passengers with the proper credentials pass. When she reached for a Twinkie I quickly but gently eased myself among the masses and stepped on to the elevator which took me to where I wanted to go in the first place - the Delta Crown Room, home away from home, a place where they hate my guts but have to act like they don't, where whiskey is free and you can suck down all the bandwidth you want, as long as you're a T-Mobile customer or have someone else's userid and password.
The Crown Room is that place where I present a membership card that always gets attention. Most of these plastic passes out of hell prominently show a date of expiration. That way there will come a day the help can tell you to "get out or pay -- you're not a member, not anymore." My card merely says, "Lifetime." It is a long story and Iʼll save it for later, but to the desk attendants it means that I am not someone to be fucked with, if only because they know that either I am someone, or more likely that I know someone -- someone who could end their careers, to use that term in the loosest sense.
I tossed down a Wild Turkey, tipped liberally, ordered another and slipped the glass into my jacket pocket. I know that soon Big Joe will be waiting at baggage claim and he will have my luggage tucked under one of his oversized hambone arms and he will smile when he sees me, if only because that is his job. We will take a short walk to the illegally parked area where the flat black Suburban will be waiting patiently and we will ride in total silence into south L.A. where I will strap up and Big Joe will once again ogle the Glock .40 he wants more than life itself. Then Big Joe will stop in front of the terminal, get out and open my doorand as we make our way to the private "do not enter" side entrance, he will will kick the dog shit out of anyone who happens to be in my path, and then I will enter and it will be there that it will all begin one more time.
Lupe is single mother, 4 children, looks a lot younger than she is, and sports a serious work ethic and an opinion on just about everything. Born in Mexico City dirt poor she worked her way up -first high school, then a bachelor's degree in the military, citizenship, took a couple of years off to get her masters and is now managing an operation for a significant transportation company we happen to both be working for at the moment. She's tough. Even Big Joe defers and it is best not to look at her in the eyes unless you want to hear one of Life's Lessons According to Lupe. Last night I was packing up when she walked in, slammed her hands flat on my desk, leaned forward, and said nothing. I glanced up and our eyes met if only for a second. That was her key.
"Do you know the problem with most people?" she asked, point blank.
"Yes, I do," I replied, which apparently was not the answer she was looking for.
"Well, let me tell you," she said in way that sounded like, "I don't give a fuck what you think --I'm going to tell you anyway." "Most people are lazy and dishonest," she blurted, pounding her closed fist on the desk.
"I agree," I said, "and I am glad that we have achieved this agreement on the frailties of the human race so quickly," I smiled, looking at my watch. She blew off my hint and kept rolling. "I was born into a family of eleven children," she began. "On the day each of us turned 18 our mama would bake us a cake. Each of us would have a small piece and then Daddy would take us, one by one, to the highway in the back of his old pickup truck. He'd let us out on that day, give us each fifty pesos and say, 'Call us when you get somewhere,' and then he'd drive away."
It sounded like the end of her story but she wasn't finished, not even close. "Do you know what you call that?" she demanded. "Do you??" "Child abuse?" I queried. "What?," she snarled. "What did you say?" "Nothing, just clearing my throat. I don't know, Lupe. What do you call it when someone abandons a young girl on the side of a highway in the middle of the Mexican desert with five bucks?" "You call it learning to make it on your own. That's what you call it!" and Lupe nodded in a way that gave me the distinct impression I should also nod in order to avoid getting my ass kicked.
I nodded and I noticed Big Joe standing in the doorway to my office, as always on the ready and he began to speak… "Mr. Karger, are you ready… " Lupe cut him off with not so much as a glance in his direction.
"Ready? Ready for what, fat ass? Get out. Get out now!"
Big Joe slouched away and I heard another thirty three minutes of Lupe's Life Lessons, mostly good ones, and then she was gone. No "goodbye," just gone.
I changed vehicles this week --the Suburban was too high profile so I found something different, special, what you might call a "hard to find" ride.
Big Joe and I walked out into the night together and he stopped wide-eyed as I opened the door.
"What the fuck is this?" he muttered.
I laughed and slapped him hard across the face, threw my Zero Halliburton attache into the front seat, opened it, pulled out the Glock, popped in a clip,pulled up my pant leg, taped another clip to my ankle, smiled at Big Joe, drove toward the 101, and then I said "good night" --to no one.
It ended like it began. Suddenly, no warning. The evil bastards who had told us from Day 1 they had a lock on the case just gave up. After six weeks of hand to hand combat, it ended with a whimper instead of a bang. When I was younger, and a lot stupider, I would demand they stand up and take it like a man, but years have taught me that hits, runs and errors are no different than a forfeit if only because a "W" is a "W" no matter how or even why it ends up in your column.
The folks who pay the bills seemed happy as evidenced by the wild, drunk orgy that began in a tony outdoor restaurant in downtown L.A. about 7:30 p.m. last evening and ended, well, I'm not sure, but I know that I fell in love at the dinner table and left early enough to take a shower and make my way to LAX where I was fondled repeatedly by a TSA agent who could sense I had way too much fun the night before and was pissed she didn't get in on the action.
But that's not the point. This isn't about being gang-banged by the government again. It is about happiness and I want the folks paying my whiskey bills to be happy even when my statement for services arrives, some of which are so large that even my accountant is embarrassed to discuss them. Well, fuck him, too. I think I'll fire that bastard soon enough. After all, if you have enough money that you need someone to count it, you don't need someone to count it. Not that I have that much but I have learned the difference between more and enough.
More is just one buck or banana that you didn't have yesterday. A moron knows what more is. The more difficult question is "how much is enough?" The concept of enough isn't numeric. Enough is a decision and drawing that line in the sand is the only way to ever be satisfied.
Jesus, I can't stay on point. Now I'm off on philosophy. This is the result of too much Patron tequila. I've seen these results before. So, let me start one more time. You just want to know how the story ended in south L.A. and that is what Iam going to tell you if the battery in this laptop will hold on for another fewminutes . . .
Big Joe barged through my door about four o'clock whooping like a wild hyena on speed.
"Hot damned!" he barked, slapping his leg.
"Get out of my office, Joe," I said without looking up.
"It's done, Mister Jim. All over. You won! Here's the paper," and he slammed a fax down on my desk.
I picked it up and read it quickly. I had seen it all before and I pushed it back across the table.
"We won! Aren't you happy, Mister Jim?" he implored. My lack of excitement was palpable and I could see Joe was disappointed that I hadn't joined in the celebration that I could hear spreading down the hallway.
"We won?" I asked quietly. "Is that what happened here, Big Joe?"
His eyes fell and he looked confused and stupid, mostly because he was.
"What did happen here, Big Joe? Tell me," I said softly.
"We won" he repeated, but I could see in his eyes he knew that wasn't the right answer.
I opened my desk drawer slowly and pulled out a new C2 Taser that had just arrived my Federal Express the day before, touched the trigger lightly and I could see the laser dot hit Big Joe in the solar plexus. Joe saw it, too, but before he could object I pulled the trigger and I heard the 'whoosh' and in in less than a tenth of second the barbs found their mark. Big Joe hit the ground like a sack of dead cats. 50,000 volts --whap! The Taser company describes this nasty little weapon as "propelling wires to conduct energy to affect the sensory and motor functions of the nervous system." I don't know what the fuck that means but I do know it is the understatement of the year. After being hit with a fresh Taser you lay on the floor writhing like a fish out of water. The pain is indescribable. You want to say something but all you can do is groan --just like Big Joe. But I did Joe with a good heart, thinking of it as rebooting him in order that he might think more clearly.
In about five minutes when he came to his senses and remembered who he was, Big Joe looked up. I was standing over him. "Why you did that?" he asked and I could tell by the tone of his voice that his feelings were hurt.
"I did it Joe because you got the answer wrong," I replied matter-of-factly.
"Success is never about winning, Big Joe. Success is about not losing. Greed is the source of our desire to win. Fear makes us not want not to lose. Fear trumps greed any day, everyday. Do you understand what I am saying, Big Joe?
Fear is why people are successful, even though they attribute it to their own talent, entitlement or greed."
"Yes, sir. I thinks I understands," he watched my finger playing with the trigger which is another fine feature of the Taser. Even when the victim comes to his senses the barbs are still in place and one can administer up to 20 separate and distinct charges until they either give up or get the answer right.
Big Joe got up on his knees and then flopped his sweaty palms on my desk and stood up. Then he started laughing crazily for no good or even apparent reason. I almost started liking him.
"You wants your car, Mister Jim?" he asked, just like he did every night for the last six weeks. I smiled, reached over and jerked the barbs out of him and we walked out the door together and over to the insane-mobile as I have come to call it. This vehicle was so ugly, so stupid, so ridiculous, and so wrong, but it did have a genuine 502 cubic inch crate motor stuffed under the hood with a huge root blower on it which I used to crush a Viper on the 101 the night before in adead heat from 60 miles an hour. I stomped him so badly the driver of the Viper pulled over, got out and started walking and crying at the same time.
Joe opened my door and smiled. "It sure has been good, Mister Jim. I learned a lot." Something was running down his cheek. I thought for a moment it might be tear, but I decided it was snot.
I laid my Zero Halliburton case on the driver's seat, opened it, pulled out the Glock .40, ejected the clip and thumbed the shells onto the ground and thenpressed the clip back in gently. I felt close to Big Joe but after having just given him 50,000 reasons to want to hurt me, I wasn't going to give him the benefit of the doubt and I damned sure wasn't going to give him a loaded pistol.
"It's yours, Big Joe," but as he reached for it I pulled it away and said, "but only if you can tell me why I should give it to you."
He pondered the question for a moment and looked up. "Because we didn't lose. Because we didn't get our asses kicked, Mister Jim. That's why."
I felt proud of Big Joe, handed him the Glock, and left him, a felon with multiple convictions, standing outside a bus terminal in broad daylight with a .40 caliber Glock in his hand, smiling broadly, figuring he still had no chance to win in life butat least he might not lose as often.
And now sitting comfortably in first class sipping a Mimosa, fresh off the post-lunatic orgy, post LAX pat-down, I know this --the whole experience was altogether right from the start.
You recall that I left Big Joe, a 350-pound multiple felon at a bus terminal in east L.A. fingering a .40 caliber Glock that I had given him as a gift for keeping me alive. Before I could make my plane, I got a call from the police saying that Big Joe had been incarcerated for "felony menacing," whatever that meant. I told the cop to "lock him up and throw away the key," but as I approached LAX I decided I couldn't leave the fat bastard and spun the flat black Suburban around and bailed Big Joe out.
He was so happy to see me that he broke down outside the police department at which time I shot him (again) with the Taser C2. He fell to the pavement spitting and sputtering and said something about tearing my balls off and shoving them up my ass. At least that's what I thought he said. As I stood over him, I wept, too. Here's a freak of nature, I thought, put on the streets of a big city with no sense, no education and no excuse for anything. He was a genuinely dangerous bastard but like a Pit Bull, he was who he was meant to be. So, I offered him the position of "Head of Security" which he instantly accepted and we flew back to Mexico together.
He now lives in my compound and I pay him a thousand dollars a week, which is exactly $900 more a week than he ever made legally.
Asked by a waiting reporter why he was making an unannounced trip to France, Karger replied, "I am naturally excited by the relentless perjury that only happens only once every four years – Presidential elections are the Olympics of full-bore lying and I am a huge sports fan." The press scribbled frantically as he continued. "And I am almost giddy that we can actually understand the candidates this go 'round, what with Obama and McCain both able to speak in full sentences, unlike Bush, a pathetic moron and malaprop, a full-bore thug, the Alfred E. Neuman of a generation of pigs. But, don't get me wrong," Karger caustioned. "On the one hand, I almost like the fool. I feel much like I would feel toward a retarded child. On the other hand, even a retarded child can piss you off if he shits himself too often and that's where I am now with George. It is best he leave and go back to Crawford and cut brush, something he is clearly qualified to do, even if poorly."
"But why Paris, Mr. Karger?" a junior member of the press inquired, trying to follow Karger into the private airline club. "Members only!" Karger snapped, and slammed the door crushing the reporter's foot. The scream was interrupted only by the sound of metatarsals snapping in order which was genuinely sickening to everyone present, except Karger, of course, who thought and replied politely, "The nationalization of the U.S. entire financial system will be followed by government seizure of the auto, food, and adult film industries which will make us France, except without good wine, pastry, and women so beautiful, so sensual, you'd bang one of them like a gong in front of your own wife in hopes it would not damage your relationship."
The press nodded in unison and listened intently as Karger continued, "I have no choice but to leave immediately and get the story, and that means connecting to the Mother Ship, Paris, where the government that controls everything is itself controlled. I must secure, at great personal risk, the wild, crude and true confessions of the guilty. I must get the real 'feel' of France, Karger gestured as if fondling fine breasts. "I must become, even if for a moment, a true socialist. After all, It is our future."
Karger's bodyguard, known only as "Big Joe," kicked the door closed, snapping the trapped reporter's foot off like a piece of dry kindling. Karger smiled gently and gave the remaining press contingent the peace sign followed by his raised middle finger and then graciously wished everyone "all the best" before disappearing into what he referred to "as my sanctuary, a place where the general public is not welcomed."
It is 3:23 a.m. and I am sitting casually with no shoes on in the lobby of Le Six, a tony hotel with 22 suites in the Latin Quarter of Paris. This night the lobby is populated by three souls, or two souls and one soulless, if you count Big Joe, who is sleeping on a Louis XIV divan just across the Queen Anne table that separates us. The conscious are limited to me and a desk clerk named Pierre, so says his name tag. Pierre is taking turns watching TV, me, and Big Joe. I can see his eyes peering over the front desk from time to time as he sits silently watching French porn on a pitiful little black and white television.
I couldn't sleep and I got up about an hour ago when I couldn't find my shoes, which explains my attire – jeans and bare feet in a small boutique hotel lobby at a time decent people are sleeping and I am wearing a t-shirt that reads, "Don't make me violate my probation." I bought it a few weeks ago at a Goodwill store in Arlington, Texas, but that is a different story and I will save it for later.
Big Joe and I arrived at Charles DeGaulle airport yesterday at 11:42 a.m. on a Continental Boeing 777-200 non-stop from Houston. I was seated in what they term "Business-First," which is a meaningless, but deceptive, term. After all, I inquired loudly at the ticket counter, "Is it First or is it Business?" No one said anything, and it was suddenly clear to me. "Business-First" is that place that that exists between First Class where there was nothing too good the help could do for you, and coach, where there was nothing too bad they could do to you. It is the Hades of air travel. Indeed, there are too few genuine First Class seats left in these dark, dark days. In "Business-First," there is no choice of whiskeys, and the flight attendants are too busy to play strip poker in the middle of the night, even if paid $6,000 for a round-trip ticket.
"Amy" was my flight attendant this trip, a late 40's tensile blonde with a bad attitude, or maybe I judged her too harshly. I sensed she was different when she was younger, at least that is what she told me, before her two marriages failed, and they started making her wear those hideous polyester sacks tailored at Central Tent and Awning. We discussed her life for a couple of hours, how her skin was too loose to attract the man of her dreams and how the days were over when guys she picked up in First Class wanted to photograph her naked. I also mentioned the name "Amy" didn't work anymore – it is a young girl's name and that she should change hers to something appropriate, like Mabel. The honesty was too much and she disappeared crying hysterically into one of the Business-First lavatories from which she never emerged.
But, I am getting off track before I was ever on track. This happens occasionally among real genius. The fact is I am now in Paris, sitting cross-legged, bare-footed in a dark lobby of a fine hotel lamenting the fate of a once-proud nation that stood for a single proposition: the freedom to fuck each other out of money. But things have changed over the last weeks and now we are like them, the French, a people who work 32 hours a week, drink a bottle of wine at lunch, drive Peugeots and depend on government to bail them out anytime they get into a bind. France is a place you can be treated for a torn rotator cuff or syphilis by a doctor on a salary.
As a professional, I feel the only way to really know what it will feel like to live in America was to get to the heart of the matter, and that is why I am here. Later today I will hit the streets and get the real story.
I see Pierre again as I am typing this; he's peering over the check-in desk. I know what he is wondering as he sits there jacking off to bad porn. He is asking himself, "How can Mr. Karger be so vibrant and refreshed at three o'clock in the morning after an all night flight?" And, it is a good question that deserves an answer that goes something like this: I always fly First, unless there is only "Business First" available. Then, begin every flight by complaining bitterly at the ticket counter, continuing the rant at the check-in desk and upon entering the aircraft. Wild demands inure the wait staff to you, as someone who actually knows the way things should be. As I see the door close and am told to put my seatbelt on like all the rest, I rise and disappear into the bowels of Coach, find an aisle where no one is sitting and place a newspaper on one seat, a package of condoms on another, and a blow up doll in the third. Then I return to my rightful place and it is then, exactly that moment, that I take my goodnight cocktail, which as a Dr. of Pharmacology, I invented after significant testing: .5 mg. Xanax, 5 mg. Ambien, 3 mg. Melatonin, all chased with Blanton's bourbon from an engraved pewter flask. Then, after dinner I disappear into Coach again, make my bed out of the three across aisle and I sleep.
I woke up exactly one hour before landing, returned to my gumby seat in "Business First," left Big Joe jammed in the back where he belonged, had a fruit plate, yogurt, fresh orange juice and a half a bottle of Grey Goose. I felt like a million Euro as I stepped off the plane and into a world I am destined to understand.
More to come . . .
I slept until noon, woke, dressed, and rang Big Joe.
“Fuck you!” he answered. I could tell his mood was foul after spending most of the night in the lobby on a couch after 15 hours jammed in a coach class seat.
“Meet me in the lobby – 15 minutes – we don’t have much time. We must see the future of America. We will all be socialists soon and we must know what it feels like. The story is essential.” He muttered another profanity and I hung up and took the tiny elevator down to the lobby. Pierre was gone, as was his TV, and in his place were Antoine and Bella, standing at the desk, starched shirts and personalities to match.
“Messr. Karger, bon jour,” Antoine offered, trying to smile but not able to pull it off.
“I have a question, Antoine -- once we’re like you, will I have to say ‘Bon Jour’ or can I still say nothing when I pass the desk help in a hotel lobby as evidence that I still despise mornings?”
He cocked his head, reminding me of the dog on the old RCA Victor record labels. “I am sorry, Messr. I do not understand,” he said, finally smiling, knowing this would be the first of many opportunities he would have to try and appear helpful without actually having to be helpful.
“That's fine, Antoine, if you want to play it close to the vest, no problem. But, I will discover the new America and it is here somewhere,” I gestured toward the busy street. “And, by the way, I’m going to the restaurant now. When you see a 350 pound Mexican who appears to be drunk and in a very bad mood get off that elevator,” I said, pointing to the lift, “If I was you I’d have some better answers.” I smiled knowingly and walked past the lobby into the small, but well-appointed restaurant. I sat, pulled out my engraved pewter flask, and drew deeply.
A waiter with a nametag I don’t remember because I didn’t care approached my table, more of a march than a walk. There is nothing casual about the way the French walk.
“Good morning, Messr.,” he said, staring off into the distance, clearly not giving a shit what my morning was like and subtly pissed he had to wait on a crude American, and an obvious drunkard at that.
“Listen, Pancho,” I said, looking at the menu. “None of this will do, so write this down. I want a dozen egg whites scrambled, a half pound of your best smoked salmon, an onion whole, a large butcher knife, capers, cream cheese in the original container, a fork, a pot of coffee, a pitcher of fresh orange juice, and a bottle of Skyy vodka. That should do it,” I said and tossed the menu on the floor.
He appeared disturbed but finally got it out, “And how many will be joining you for this breakfast,” gesturing across the table to the empty chair.
“Just one, but he’ll have to order for himself. For now, fuck him. Just worry about me.”
“Oui,” he turned on his heels and marched to the kitchen, the steel rod still firmly up his ass.
Big Joe showed up just as the coffee arrived, sat, and stared vacantly across the table and said nothing. I slapped him heard across the face.
“Wake up, fool,” I snarled, “we are on a mission and we must be nourished. What do you want to eat?”
Big Joe, who had probably robbed more restaurants than he had ever eaten in, smiled, “I want a watermelon. I want a whole watermelon just for me,” he said with a toothy grin except for the one incisor he is missing.
“Oh, Jesus!” I thought. This bastard is going to be hard to control. We’re not even going to get through breakfast without total, unmitigated embarrassment, or violence, or both.
But I was pleasantly surprised, as happens rarely. The waiter came up with some watermelon, and even though Joe was disappointed it was not the whole watermelon he ordered, he didn’t fly into a panic rage as I have seen him do on more than one occasion.
“It will be OK, Big Joe. Eat your watermelon and take a slug of this,” I said, handing him the full liter of Skyy vodka. He threw his head back, turned up the big blue bottle and finished about half of it, slammed it down on the table, grabbed the bread basket and ate it all, and then fell back into his chair and looked at me as if he was expecting an award or at least some verbal critical imprimatur.
“You’re a fucking pig, Joe,” I said, serious but I felt it was time he knew.
He smiled. “I know I am.” It was strange but understandable. Joe liked any attention, any attention at all. The poor bastard had been so ignored his entire life, that even being labeled swine in a public setting made him happy because it made him something in a world where he had been nothing at all.
We finished breakfast. The bill was staggering -- two hundred Euro, or three hundred dollars in rough but relevant numbers which was consistent with what I had seen of Paris to that point -- very expensive, no exceptions. We walked through the lobby, past Antoine. I smiled. Antoine tried to smile. Joe shot him the finger. And then we were out on the streets of Paris in search of the new America.
It was cool, overcast and misty. We stood on the wet street, no map, and no idea where in this city of millions we were, where we were going, but I knew in my heart we would find what we were looking for – America’s future.
“How do you like the weather, Joe?” I said, making conversation.
“It sucks,” he replied, looking up to the heavens as the heavens spat on him.
“OK, then I’ll need to write all this down,” and I pulled a small Coach leather notebook and pen from my jacket, opened it, and wrote, “It will always be cold, misty, and rainy in the New America.”
Not a great start, but mine was not to judge but to record.
“I want to go the Eiffel Tower,” Joe mumbled, mispronouncing both “Eiffel” and “Tower.”
“Have you been trying to read again, Big Joe?” I asked.
“Yeah, and I saw a picture in a book that was in my room last night. I like the pictures,” he said.
“OK, the Eiffel Tower it is,” and soon we were in a taxi. I scribbled again in my notebook, “In the new America, taxi drivers will drive fast, dangerous, and curse everyone else on the road just like they do in New York and Vegas.” Good, I thought, at least something won’t change.
As we stood at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower I was led to the obvious question which I asked out loud, “Why the fuck would anyone build something like this – it is totally useless – like a giant erector set.”
Some of the French speak English, but not too many admit to it, until you say something like that . . .
It is 3:23 a.m. and I am in the First Class section of Singapore Air Flight 37 which left Los Angeles six hours ago. That is a lot of time when you’re imprisoned in an extruded aluminum tube at 41,000 feet, but I need to get this down while it is still fresh in my mind – how it all came to pieces in Paris last month, but mostly what I learned there about the new America, what we will soon become once the new owners take over . . .
I was in a cab with Big Joe on the way to the Eiffel Tower when I decided we needed a drink. Deep understandings before noon are difficult at best and impossible stone sober. Sometimes aid is called for and this was one of those times. When Joe saw me pull out my engraved pewter flask he mimicked me as he often does pulling out his cheap plastic imitation which he sucked dry before I could even get my top unscrewed.
I could see he needed more whiskey in order to attain the level of enlightenment necessary to be of any help to me in our quest to find the New America and so I took a short draw and handed my flask over to him. He beamed, threw his head back and sucked so hard the sides collapsed. He stared at the carnage and handed it back to me.
“You fucker,” I snapped. “You just ruined my favorite flask. It was a gift from my children.” The cab driver stiffened and it was then I knew this Frenchy spoke English and what he had heard and seen in his rearview mirror was none too comforting. The vision of young children giving their own father a whiskey flask for Christmas might have not been too much until I rolled down my window and threw it out where it landed on the pavement and was instantly crushed flat under the wheels of a Renault tractor-trailer.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jim,” Joe whimpered. “I’ll buy you another one,” he said, staring down at his own pitiful empty plastic flask.
“Yeah, you do that Joe,” I mocked, “and while you’re at it have it engraved like the one you ruined. That one said . . .
To Our Dad,
A Loner, Sadist, and Mind Fucker
Love, Your (Legitimate) Children”
Joe wept silently. He hates to disappoint me and I hate to be disappointed. So, I let him cry all the way to the Eiffel Tower, which I had no interest in seeing but I knew Joe would never give me a moment’s peace unless he saw it.
The driver stopped in front of the huge, rusted steel structure and announced curtly, “25 Euro.” I pulled out a handful of U.S. dollars from my wallet but he shoved them back at me like I had produced a steaming hot turd instead of real money. I leafed through my wallet again and gave him twenty-five Euros and quickly calculated that I had just paid $37.25 for a 12-minute cab ride. I quickly made a note in my notebook, “Cabs will very expensive in the New America and we will use Euros, not dollars.” The cabby stared at the bills for a moment and then said he wanted a “tip,” and so I gave him one. “In the next life, dickhead, get an education. You might be able to do something more meaningful than drive a cab and beg for money.”
“You, sir, are a cock-sucker,” he said in plain English, plain enough that Big Joe heard him.
“What the fuck did he say?” Big Joe asked no one in particular, and in one of the singularly most brutal moves I have ever witnessed he caught the cabby from the backseat with a right hook to the side of his head which shattered the driver side window and he went down like a sack of dead cats into the front seat with not so much as a whimper. As he lay there unconscious, Big Joe and I discussed the situation calmly.
“I think you killed him, Big Joe,” I said, no emotion.
“Yeah, he might be dead,” Big Joe replied matter-of-factly, looking over the seat and inspecting the damage.
We got out of the cab and walked to the ticket booth and I bought the passes that would allow us to go all the way to the top – nothing but the best, I thought. An hour later, after exiting an even more profound disappointment than I’d expected the cab was still sitting in the same spot, still idling, and as we walked by I could see the driver was still napping in the front seat but beginning to stir. In other hour, I figured, he’d probably remember too much and it was then I made the decision we needed to continue our search elsewhere.
I wrote in my notebook, “The New America will be made up of asshole cab drivers who can’t take a head shot.” Again, I concluded, it wouldn’t be that different than the old America.
I hailed another cab and told him that we “must examine your retail.” He looked in the rearview mirror quizzically but before he said anything that might result in his losing consciousness, too, I ordered him “to the Champs-Élysées. “We want to buy something, something expensive. Are there any adult toy stores there? I am looking for solid billet aluminum vibrators that plug into the dryer socket that I might buy in bulk for Christmas gifts.”
“I know nothing of such things, Messr.,” the driver huffed, putting the Peugeot into gear.
I looked at Joe and smiled. “It is all becoming clear to me now,” I said, pulling out my notebook again. “In the new America,” I wrote, “everyone will be liars, especially when it comes to sex.” That, too, I lamented silently, won’t make life that much different than the old America.
We spent a half-day on perhaps the longest section of retail in the world, other than Singapore and Hong Kong, the latter nothing but retail. Yet there is a difference. The Chinese are honest about their place in the world -- just good Communists with a penchant for making a buck. Paris is more deceptive -- a cultural head fake before you figure out that the bottom line is still the bottom line.
It became clear when we walked into Lamarthe, a high-end leather shop with no reason to exist except that the rich get bored every now and then and spending is a painless way to waste time. There were initial objections about bringing in a 350 pound wild boar named Big Joe, a pit bull on a gunpowder diet who had clearly been drinking but the objections were instantly overruled when I produced a flat black American Express card, the kind you can’t buy but which speaks the universal language of unmitigated, unapologetic, in-your-face conspicuous consumption.
After a half hour of chatting up the clerk, a striking, late-20’s, tall blonde, named Sabine, whose stare and fragrance were genuinely hypnotic, I fondled the merchandise and finally chose an Orbino portfolio, a small but elegant briefcase specially made to fit a MacBook Air and that cost more than the MacBook Air it was designed to protect. Sabine instantly declared my selection to be “a truly wonderful choice illustrating a genuine appreciation for the finer things in life.” She smiled seductively and I took her compliment seriously if only because Sabine knew of the finer things in life and knew that she wanted them enough to slip me her business card on which she had written, “Lunch sometime?” along with her telephone number.
There are a lot of women in this world like Sabine -- ready, willing and able to sweat four hours a day in the gym, eat lettuce, then do another couple of hours each with the hairdresser, makeup artist, and manicurist, read the New York Times cover to cover and wait patiently for someone they don’t love but to whom they are married and who will always smile sweetly and fuck hubby like a porn star in exchange for one thing: a flat black American Express card that comes with no questions asked about how it is used. These are women who do not engage in the fantasies of “true love,” “soul mates,” or the temporal impossibility of “forever.” Those disabilities have been bred out of this strain of woman and the fundamental trade of goods for services present in every relationship between a man and a woman is not hidden behind meaningless platitudes and promises. These women understand at a cellular level that men are simple creatures with range the length of their members, who want nothing more than a nymphomaniac with perfect skin who is pleasant and who can talk politics, sports, and entertainment. That’s it: nothing more, nothing less.
Joe and I stepped out into a light rain and I dropped Sabine’s card on the ground and I watched as her writing slowly disappeared with each drop.
I wrote in my notebook, “In the new America there will be no love but there will beautiful, tall, thin, naturally blonde women who, for a price, will pretend.”
We walked back to the hotel and by the time we arrived the afternoon newspaper, Le Petit, was waiting in my room. I translated the headline. “Taxi Driver Assaulted by American.” We checked out of the hotel under the cover of darkness and took a train to Amsterdam where we spent the next three days in the red light district smoking pot and admiring women who stand behind glass windows and who, like Sabine, are for sale but who don’t have the confidence, the looks or the intelligence to understand you can rent it for more than thirty minutes.
Joe and I then returned home on a direct flight to Mexico City and were picked up by my driver in a fully armored Suburban with glass darker than legal. Once safely inside the compound Joe handed me a small bag. “This is a gift for you, Mister Jim,” he announced proudly. “I really am sorry about your flask.” He held his head low.
From the bag I pulled out a wallet from the Dunhill Ensign collection. I had seen it before. They are a grand a copy. I knew Joe had stolen it but it was the thought that counted. It is always the thought that counts.
Epilog: I thanked Joe and sent the wallet back to Sabine the next morning in an overnight pouch with a gracious note that I wrote on engraved and watermarked Crane 100% cotton bond and signed it with a George Bernard Shaw Writer’s Edition Mont Blanc, a touch that I knew she would value and appreciate.
It is now 9:25 a.m., just five more hours to Singapore. The young flight attendant wearing a colorful sari who tucked me in last night will serve me breakfast soon and I will read a couple of the six newspapers neatly stacked on a small table in front of me below a nineteen inch color flat screen in what is better described as a compartment than a seat. Joe is across the aisle and rather than risk anything getting out of hand at 40,000 feet I ordered him four shots of Knob Creek bourbon which he drank shortly after we boarded, a drink I had laced with enough Xanax to kill a family of polar bears. He is now sleeping quietly as I review my notes and memories from Paris.
Singapore’s Changi airport is more like a designer mall than a place where airplanes land. It is hands-down the most elegant airport in the world, a high-tech modern architectural marvel filled with creature comforts and high-end retail. The best of the best is Singapore Airlines’ First Class lounge in Terminal 3 where we landed about an hour ago. Big Joe has shaken off the sleepy-time cocktail I served him 18 hours ago in L.A. and is watching his pocket television. He helped himself to the buffet and was eating and laughing intermittently as I sat quietly and read.
“Why don’t we go to the hotel?” Big Joe broke the silence.
“Because I have been deprived of news, Big Joe, for almost a day. It is important that I read at least six newspapers in order to insure I know what comes next,” I answered, not looking up from The Straits Times.
“What is going to happen?” Big Joe asked.
I looked up and stared at him intently.
“What is going to happen?” I paused. “I’ll tell you, Joe. We’re going to die and considering the way we live our lives it will probably be soon and at the hand of someone else. They will never find our bodies and no one will bother with a funeral because they will be too busy fighting over my money.”
“Shit,” he replied.
“But right now,” I said, “I must determine what is going to happen to the rest of the world, those not as fortunate as we are, Big Joe. Theirs is the dream of more and the fantasy that one day more will finally become enough. More never becomes enough and it is painful, but interesting, to watch them suffer as the wheels come off the world economy and they die slowly as the money they worship dwindles away. Their greed will soon transmogrify into fear and that is when it will get dangerous and when we will need to be on our toes,” I cautioned.
He sat and thought for a moment -- at least I believe he was thinking.
“How do you know what is going to happen, Mister Jim?” he asked.
“Because I read, Big Joe, instead of watching cartoons, I replied, shuffling my newspapers and then pointing to his handheld television. “Look. Here is The Australian, China Daily, Straits Times, International Herald Tribune, Wall Street Journal, and even U.S.A. Today, a cartoon version of a real newspaper that I read solely to gauge the General Public’s gross misunderstanding of nearly everything. And this, Joe, is the Financial Times of London, a serious read for those of us interested in how and why the world economy is about to hit the wall. Yes, like Amy Winehouse, we, too, are destined to transform from a hot siren to a crack whore in one brutal move.
“Damned, Mister Jim, you are smart,” he offered sincerely.
“No, Joe. I am not smart. I am a genius and that is not because I read newspapers but because I read people. I have a keen sense of justice and a bullshit detector that I have developed over more than thirty years of listening to relentless lies and perjury from people who wear nice clothes. My gift is the ability to sort out the occasional truth. Truth -- that is our mission, Big Joe. It is why we travel, to find bits of truth here and there, put them together like a puzzle and ultimately understand why mankind is a collection of rancid shit bags punctuated intermittently with decent, kind, and empathetic people like ourselves.”
“He thought for a moment. “I thought we traveled to stay in nice hotels, get drunk and get laid,” he said, clearly confused.
“That, too, but never forget the goal,” I cautioned.
He nodded as if he understood and then asked, “What is our goal, Mister Jim?”
“Fuck you, Joe. Go back to your cartoons but be aware. Someone in here,” I gestured across the lounge, “wants to hurt me.”
He stiffened and began fidgeting in his seat. “I’ll kill that mother fucker,” he blurted a bit too loudly, garnering the attention of our fellow First Class guests.
“Not now, Joe. I’ll let you know when. Just put your earphones back in and watch your TV until we are ready,” I ordered calmly.
“But I want to know what you learn in those newspapers, Mister Jim. I don’t always want to be stupid,” he said, self-deprecating, but not to a fault.
“You are not stupid, Joe. You are ignorant. There is a difference. You can learn but you have chosen not to learn, until now. I can tell you are ready to know the truth and so let me go over a few of the high points.” I began leafing through my newspapers, summarizing each as I went along.
“Circuit City just went belly up. Dish Networks’ profits were down 54%. Do you know what that means?” I asked.
“I can’t get my TV shows?” he responded.
“No, it means the U.S. consumer, the Big Pig, is tapped out, screwed, no credit, no stuff, no reason to live,” I lectured.
“And here we have General Motors, Ford and Chrysler. Overpaid execs have worked overtime to drive those companies into the ground. They’ve finally succeeded and now they’re in Washington begging for a handout like hobos side-by-side with the AIG who already got $85 billion from the feds a few weeks ago and already need more. They’re all doomed.”
I was on a roll.
“Pension funds are dumping equities like steaming turd piles and the sovereign funds won’t touch any of our radioactive shit anymore. Hedge funds are closing up faster than two-dollar whores on five-dollar bills. That leaves the individual investor holding the bag -- suckers who listen to talking heads call a bottom only to get flushed again and again. Their homes are under water and credit card companies are upping the ante on their plastic. The Fed and the Treasury have shot all of their ammo and everyone in the know understands the General Public is screwed, except the General Public. Now, Fannie and Freddy are going to prop up the dead beats who are more than three months behind on their home loans. They will qualify for an interest rate reduction and can extend the length of the mortgage from 30 to 40 years, reduce their monthly payments and defer some of the principal interest-free. Sounds good until you realize that everyone who bought their house using common sense with a decent down payment, a fairly valued purchase price, and who can afford their mortgage payments are fucked. They will continue to pay higher rates if only because they did the right thing. That level of desperation and stupidity by government will take the banks into the toilet and there will be dark, dark days ahead. Runs on banks. Bread lines. It will be 1929 all over again except with air-conditioning.
I could see Joe trying to follow my monologue but he was still worrying about losing his satellite TV signal. For sure he sensed that whatever I was saying was not good.
“Are we going to be OK, Mister Jim?” Joe asked nervously.
I laughed and then reached over and slapped him hard on his bald head.
“Of course, Joe. We will be fine. I am going short this pig all the way to the bottom.”
He had no idea what I was talking about but seemed comforted that I didn’t seem worried. Joe spends a lot of time evaluating my moods and has become good at knowing when something troubles me.
I stood up. “Time to go, Joe. The limo is waiting. Singapore is the gem of the East. It is the intellectual capital of Asia, has the largest port on this side of the world, boasts a high per capita income, and has almost no poverty or crime. Prostitution is legal. It is hygienically clean, if only because they will beat your ass with a cane for so much as spitting gum on the ground here. There are answers for us in Singapore, Joe, and it is up to us to find those answers. Besides, the women are beautiful and I need a drink.”
We left the airport in a white Mercedes stretch for Raffles Hotel. I was tired but felt giddy with anticipation. Joe fiddled with his television.
Raffles Hotel is located a 1 Beach Road in Singapore. It has a long history dating back to the 1830’s. Service has always been the name of the game at Raffles, so much so that when the Japanese occupied Singapore during World War II they kept the staff in place. Raffles remains famous for lunch at its Palm Court, a place Joe and I have dined each day we have been here. And, in the evenings, we spend time in the hotel’s various bars, including the Long Bar, famous for being the place where the Singapore Sling was invented, no doubt by a drunk with the sweet tooth.
When not dining at the Palm Court, I spend time considering the situation as it were in the Writer’s Bar, a place where Rudyard Kipling, Somerset Maugham and Noel Coward all spent time during those periods of their lives when they had money.
I was watching the country being turned over to the new owners on the rooftop of the main house in the hot tub that overlooks the entire compound. Actually, I was just listening. I had an iced compress across my face and was alternating meditating on world peace and Heidi Klum.
I heard the roof door open and the sloppy feet of Big Joe making his way toward me.
“Uh . . .” he grunted.
“Uh, what”” I asked, not moving.
“I have some letters here that just came and I thought you might want to see them, Mister Jim.”
“You did, did you?”
I pulled my hand from the hot water and extended it toward Joe’s voice, still enjoying the breeze, the sun, the sounds of the general public worshipping their new leader over a 7.1 surround sound system, and the ice pack over my eyes that kept my face cool. I felt Joe put some papers into my hand.
“OK, now what?” I asked.
“Well, Mister Jim, they look important.”
I pulled the ice pack away and stared down at two letters. One was from the IRS. I studied it for a moment and handed it back to Joe.
“What do you want me to do with it?” Joe asked, puzzled that I had not opened it.
“Eat it,” I said.
“Say what?” he asked.
“’Eat’ and ‘it’. Which of those words don’t you understand, Big Joe?”
“You want me to eat this letter?” he asked again, looking dejectedly at the paper in his hand.
“Yes and I want you to eat it now.”
He saw the new stun gun I had just purchased laying on the spa deck then quickly put the letter in his mouth and started chewing. The taste was apparently not what he expected and he spit it into his hand,
“No fucking way!” I snapped. “Eat the fucking thing now!”
Big Joe put it back in his mouth and chewed a while longer and then swallowed the bolus ink and paper and saliva.
“Good, Joe. Very good. That takes care of that. Let’s see what else we have here.”
The other envelope was strange, elongated vertically. It was from a friend whose initials are “JV,” and while it was addressed correctly, stamped on the envelope in blue was this: “Mistakenly Sent To Singapore.”
I opened the envelope carefully and could tell it had been opened before. Inside was a card. “Happy 2009” it said with the initials “JV” on the inside. It made me feel very special and was about to get Joe to engage in another molar-disposal when I noticed that the envelope, sans card, felt too heavy. I tore it in half and out fell a one ounce South African Kruggerand dated 1984.
I flipped it to Big Joe.
He immediately put it into his mouth.
“Don’t eat that, you moron!” I ordered. “That’s worth about a thousand dollars. I can buy a good bottle of wine with that.”
He spit it back into his hand and left on the side of the spa. I told him to get me another iced towel and I slid back into the hot water and wondered about the future of America, about my next adventure that would take me from the high desert of central Mexico and then about Heidi Klum who I have long sensed wants to meet me.
It has been months since I have logged my adventures with Big Joe and it is not for lack of opportunity. Rather, Big Joe and I have been “in the moment,” as it were, racing at top speed around the globe, and there has been precious little time for reflection. After Paris, Big Joe and I found ourselves in Singapore, a place where they expect rules to be followed and when they were not we fled in the deep night to the coast of Malaysia where we lived high for a couple of weeks at the Hyatt Regency Kuantan.
This week we are in Playa del Carmen where I am hosting a High Level Conference in a beachfront home that my brother mistakenly lent me for the week. But that is another story and one that I will save for later.
Which brings me to the week that has just past. It began as do most weeks. I got up on Monday morning when I was damned good and ready to get up, turned on CNBC, rang a bell and waited impatiently for the maid to bring me coffee as I fiddled relentlessly with the computer setting up my trades and erasing e-mail from all but those who are in the Inner Circle. I mentally prepared for a brutal workout in a private gym not far from the compound. Max, my German Shepherd, paced nervously.
Big Joe was in the casita near the compound’s front gate, a place he calls “home,” mostly because it is. Big Joe knows at a cellular level that no one should pass through the gate unless they have an appointment if only because I have many enemies. Joe is well-armed and monitors about 20 cameras that have been strategically placed around the property in hopes of catching a burglar or maybe a naked female party guest. It was my admonition of “no visitors Joe or its your ass” that resulted in the beating of a completely innocent employee of the spa service that comes twice a week to make sure my hot tub is clean and 104 degrees 24/7. To that end I consider the spa much as I consider the espresso maker – when I need it, I need it and even the slightest delay could change the history of mankind.
I learned later that our regular spa employee was run down and killed by a drunken city bus driver with a score to settle and a replacement was substituted without notice at the last minute. Joe recognized that he didn’t recognize the person pushing the button at the gate over the engraved stainless steel sign that warns in both English and Spanish, “Do not push this button unless you have an appointment – and we mean it.” It was not reading these words that was a near fatal mistake. Attention to detail is often the difference between success and failure and this was an example of that principle in spades.
I will call the victim “Spa Boy” if only because I don’t know his name and I don’t want to know his name. He rang the bell to the main house. I looked up toward one of the dozen or so flat screens that hang in every room. His was young, sporting an innocent face and lugging a bucket of pool supplies. Before I could ask what he wanted, I saw Big Joe fly through gate and grab him by the neck. Big Joe was shaking him like a rag doll, intermittently crushing his face into the small stainless plaque and asking him, “Did you read that mother fucker?!!”
Spa Boy’s face was a mask of terror.
I thoughtfully considered intervening but I did not if only because rules are rules and if I made an exception for Spa Boy who knows might wander in next. I did, however, casually walk to the gate carrying my MR-XO 20 “Big Ben” boom box which is considered the pick of the litter in the Ghettoblaster Hall of Fame.
When I got to the gate, Big Joe was stomping Spa Boy senseless.
“Big Joe,” I asked quietly, “where is the love?” Without waiting for a replay, I hit the play button on Big Ben.
[In order to capture the feel of the moment, double-click “Where Is The Love” attached to this e-mail and turn up your speakers, the louder the better.]
Big Joe listened for a moment, looked up and cocked his head like the dog on the old RCA Victor albums.
I rapped along . . .
“What's wrong with the world, mama
People livin' like they ain't got no mamas
I think the whole world addicted to the drama
Only attracted to things that'll bring you trauma
Overseas, yeah, we try to stop terrorism
But we still got terrorists here livin'
In the USA, the big CIA
The Bloods and The Crips and the KKK
But if you only have love for your own race
Then you only leave space to discriminate
And to discriminate only generates hate
And when you hate then you're bound to get irate, yeah
Madness is what you demonstrate
And that's exactly how anger works and operates
Man, you gotta have love just to set it straight
Take control of your mind and meditate
Let your soul gravitate to the love, y'all, y'all.”
Then the chorus which I sang along with falsetto . . .
“People killin', people dyin'
Children hurt and you hear them cryin'
Can you practice what you preach
And would you turn the other cheek
Father, Father, Father help us
Send some guidance from above
'Cause people got me, got me questionin'
Where is the love (Love)
Where is the love (The love)
Where is the love (The love)
Where is the love
The love, the love”
[With that I pushed STOP on Big Ben just like you should do now.]
“Big Joe, where IS the love?” I asked again.
“This mutha-fucka was trying to break in . . . “
I slammed Big Ben into the side of Big Joe’s head. It mostly held together, losing just part of the handle and the volume knob.
“That is not the answer to my question, Big Joe. I asked, ‘Where is the love?’”
Joe sputtered, blood running free down his forehead and into his mouth.
“God dammit!” he screamed.
I round-housed him with Big Ben again which this time exploded like a plastic bomb and he dropped to his knees.
“Where is the love, Joe? I want to know where the fucking love is, right now you nasty mother-fucker!”
Spa Boy was in a fetal position in the corner whimpering near the small stainless sign that he would have been better off reading.
Before Joe could answer, I asked Spa Boy calmly, “Did you have any questions?”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, and I could sense he was sincere in verbalizing his sentiment.
“’I’m so sorry’ is not a question,” I offered and I could see Spa Boy reflect on Joe’s fate after he wasn’t quick enough on the uptake.
“Uh, oh shit, yes, uh, I have a question.” He paused and looked directly into my eyes.
“Who are you?”
I looked down at Big Joe lying flat on his back staring at the sky and said, “Tell him Big Joe. Tell him who I am.”
With that Big Joe reached over to his Big Ben, perhaps the only operable version then in existence, and pushed the button.
[Again, trying to maximize the reader’s understanding of the events as they occurred, double click on “Remember The Name” now. Right fucking now.]
“You ready?! Lets go!
Yeah, for those of you that want to know what we're all about
It's like this y'all (c'mon!)”
Joe leapt to his feet and began rapping with the music and dancing wildly, imploring an audience that didn’t exist, except for Spa Boy, of course.
“This is ten percent luck, twenty percent skill
Fifteen percent concentrated power of will
Five percent pleasure, fifty percent pain
And a hundred percent reason to remember the name!
Mike! - He doesn't need his name up in lights
He just wants to be heard whether it's the beat or the mic
He feels so unlike everybody else, alone
In spite of the fact that some people still think that they know him
But fuck em, he knows the code
It's not about the salary
It's all about reality and making some noise
Makin the story - makin sure his clique stays up
That means when he puts it down Tak's pickin it up! let's go!
Who the hell is he anyway?
He never really talks much
Never concerned with status but still leavin them star struck
Humbled through opportunities given to him despite the fact
That many misjudge him because he makes a livin from writin raps
Put it together himself, now the picture connects
Never askin for someone's help, to get some respect
He's only focused on what he wrote, his will is beyond reach
And now when it all unfolds, the skill of an artist
It's just twenty percent skill
Eighty percent fear
Be one hundred percent clear cause Ryu is ill
Who would've thought that he'd be the one to set the west in flames
And I heard him wreckin with The Crystal Method, "Name Of The Game"
Came back dropped Megadef, took em to church
I like bleach man, why you have the stupidest verse?
This dude is the truth, now everybody be givin him guest spots
His stock's through the roof I heard he fuckin with S. Dot!”
With that, Big Joe hit the STOP button [as you should now do] and flashed the West Side gang sign and concluded, “That’s who the fuck he is. Any other questions?”
Spa Boy said nothing. He’d pissed his pants.
I went over and extended Spa boy the hand of friendship and pulled him to his feet.
“I hope we can put this little misunderstanding behind us, Spa Boy.”
He was stunned but nodded. I interpreted it tacit assent.
“Great. Now, get to work.”
He scuttled through the gate toward the main house.
Big Joe and I looked at each other but said nothing.
Jim Karger arrived at Hospital Angeles in Queretaro, Mexico in the early dark hours of yesterday morning (July 1) under heavy security. The press lay in wait having covered Karger’s hideous injury of the day before which occurred at International Fitness in San Miguel de Allende, a gym he has made famous due to his remarkable and highly-publicized physical transformation over the last several months.
Attempting to break the dead lift record for Mexico in the over-50 category, Karger weighed in at a svelte 178 pounds. As he pulled up on the bar the strain was palpable. The forged steel bent six inches, maybe more, before the seemingly uncountable stack of plates on each side began to leave the floor. Just inches from a successful lift there was a hideous sound that this reporter has never heard before and hopes never to hear again. The weight crashed to the gym floor and bounced at least three times as Karger stared upward and winced in pain. The crowd rushed the stage to help but Karger raised his hand and told his admirers to “be calm.” He was then rushed to his personal physician who recommended surgery be performed by world-renowned gastroenterolgist-laproscopic specialist, Dr. Mario Cesar Garcia Feregrino.
The surgery occurred promptly at 9:00 a.m. yesterday morning in Queretaro, Mexico. At 11:30 a.m., Dr. Garcia approached the makeshift podium set up at the entrance to the ultra-modern hospital and said the following, “The surgery on Mr. Karger was a wild success, a tribute to both my unquestioned skills and Mr. Karger’s remarkable physical condition which I liken to that of a 24-year old athlete. You could pour a quart of water into his abdominals and not lose a drop.”
Regarding Mr. Karger comments after surgery, Dr. Garcia recalled, “After he awoke from the general anesthesia, Mr. Karger’s first question was, “Do I look puffy?” We assured him that he did not but, in fact, ‘remarkably buff’ for someone who just went through serious and invasive surgery.”
Asked about Karger's condition, Doctor Feregrino said, "He is released to travel immediately. He has many scheduled engagements and will not miss any. In normal cases it would be 4-6 weeks minimum before he was back in the gym, but Mr. Karger’s superior physical condition will cut that time in half, at least. Indeed, we have used a new plutonium material that is better than the original equipment. In a word, Karger will be ‘unstoppable.’” At that point the President of Hospital Angeles worldwide took the podium and concluded, “Mr. Karger is, without doubt, the bravest man in Mexico. That is the extent of the hospital’s comment except to say that Mr. Karger was aggressive, brilliant, captivating and gracious, simultaneously. Indeed, four of his five nurses asked if they could return home with him and tend to his further care personally.”
It is anticipated that Mr. Karger will be released this afternoon and the press has been told that he may have a statement. The crowds outside the hospital continue to grow in anticipation.
Karger left Angeles Hospital in Queretaro, Mexico, this afternoon to great fanfare.
“This is not what I want,” he said, motioning to the large crowd from a makeshift podium in front of the luxury hospital. “But I know it is what you need.”
“Know that I am not only doing well, but that I am now bionic. Know that I will be back stronger than ever in a matter of a few short weeks. Know that my opponents will suffer relentlessly as they always have and always will. The only thing I am concerned about at the moment is that I may be looking puffy.”
The crowd cheered uncontrollably.
“I would like to thank my workout partner and 'ho, Kelly. She, along with my public relations agent, Katy Lachky, keep me humble. Special thanks also goes to my nutritionist in Chicago, Jeannie Gorman. She has engineered my diet to the molecular level. Thanks to my son, James, and his trainer in Dallas, Rendy Delacruz, who have kept my workouts state of the art. And, gracias to Jim Starr at International Fitness who keeps my spine in line and contributes to my notable and oft-desired positive attitude. And finally I want to mention my supplement sponsors, BSN Nutrition and Controlled Labs and their fine products which you should all use daily.”
As Karger made his way off the podium, a lone heckler in the crowd, no doubt a criminally-insane and dangerous drug-addled lunatic, yelled out, “And who is your steroid sponsor, Mr. Karger?”
Karger shook his head sadly. “As you know I have always spoken against steroid-use. I have the testosterone level of a 28 year old man. And so your question disappoints me.”
At that moment, Karger’s bodyguard, Big Joe, leapt into the crowd and began an immediate and vicious frenzy, quickly stomping the interloper to his knees. The crowd closed in on the beating area, yelling in unison, “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him now!”
Karger calmly raised his hand and admonished the crowd to “be calm,” telling them “violence rarely gets anyone anywhere, except for me and Big Joe, of course. It has gotten us a long way.”
Karger walked into the crowd and shook hands as he made his way to Big Joe who still had the heckler in a full Nelson. Karger smiled gently and then pulled a stun baton from his shoulder bag and administered a brutal 700,000-volt charge that stood the lifeless loser straight up. Karger then turned the crowd and announced, “As you can see, I can also bring the dead back to life. This is, you have to admit, a cool trick.”
With that Karger and Big Joe made their way to the flat black Suburban, windows dark as legal, and an open .50 mm. machine gun mount not subtly protruding through the sun roof. Big Joe opened the back door and Karger reached in and brought out a handful of BSN supplement samples and threw them into the crowd who again cheered wildly. He waved magnanimously and then was gone, but not forgotten.
Upon returning to his fortified compound in San Miguel de Allende on Thursday, Karger was greeted with a festoon of rose petals that littered the tree-lined street to his home. The outpourings of sympathy have mostly taken the form of women’s panties dropped at the massive gates that protect Karger’s guarded residence.
Karger released a statement today that he both “valued and appreciated” the female undergarments, “especially the thongs,” which he found “wholly appropriate” under the circumstances.
Team Karger, represented by Fleishman-Hillard in all public relations matters, simultaneously announced a contest that will be limited to Karger’s female fans worldwide. Self-designated teams will compete for an opportunity to be named to Karger’s personal staff in a yet-to-be designated position (no pun intended). The team that first identifies both the exact location of the implant and the name of the bionic device laproscopically implanted into Karger after his hideous accident earlier in the week will be declared the winner and receive the coveted prize.
Asked how he felt about the competition, Karger replied graciously, “Women competing to find out what is in my pants has been a lifelong pursuit for many and I wish each of them the very best of luck. That said, I am not saying that my bionic part is in my pants but I use the example to make a point that I can’t quite recall right now.”
The International Federation of Body Builders (IFBB) issued this statement late today: “Karger was attempting to break the senior (over age 50) dead lift record for the country of Mexico. He was within inches of a successful lift when a catastrophic failure occurred. The outpouring of sympathy and support of our global membership has been overwhelming. We understand that Karger returned to gym on Friday morning for what he termed "light cardio" less than 48 hours after his surgery on Wednesday which we find altogether admirable, amazing, unbelievable, but not at all surprising.”
Rules and regulations for the "Team Karger - Find the Bionic Part" contest are available from the law firm of White & Case, New York, New York. Not valid in the State of Montana for no good or apparent reason. Anyone recently sentenced to 150 years in prison is ineligible. Women who pistol-whip their valets are also ineligible.
The tragic irony of Big Joe is that while I despise him, I need him, especially now.
Living dead center in the triangle of the Mexican drug wars, I cannot have enough protection, but Big Joe comes about as close as I can get to safety without a preemptive strike against an entire population, an alternative I have seriously considered.
But, it is not the Mexican cartels that worry me. I don’t worry about those who are flush with cash like drug dealers. Violence is just their way of dealing with competitive pressures. No, I worry about broke dicks that need money. They have far more serious grudges to settle that I must deal with, or better said, Joe is paid to deal with.
And, it seems, no matter how far away I am from the panhandlers, they find my address -- the fortified compound of Team Karger. It is a place that gives no reassurance to anyone who might have a penchant to steal my toaster or worse - night vision cameras, sophisticated recording equipment, 50,000 volt high tension wire, Max, my German Shepherd with a bad fucking attitude, 50 mm machine gun mounts on every wall, and Big Joe in his apartment at the front gate sporting a Mechem .20 mm MDW sniper rifle. The combination lends credence to the message etched heavily in English and Spanish on a stainless steel plate at the gate to the heavily guarded enclave:
Welcome.
Now fuck off. You read it right. Fuck off.
We don’t care what you’re selling, what you want, or what you need.
Before you push that button, look up and to your left. He’s the one who will beat you like a redheaded step mule unless you have an appointment.
If you enter these premises without permission, you will be killed – no shit, no exceptions.
So, here’s a suggestion, homeboy -- wag your ass down that road and pretend this never happened.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Now, fuck off.
I am not looking to offend but I feel members of the General Public need to know the truth before risking having to be identified by their dental records.
Big Joe has, without distinction or remorse, beaten the likes of the pool boy, a flower seller, an illiterate firewood salesman and his burro, as well as a young thug who brought his pit bull by to “fight your German Shepherd.” Big Joe waved him off, “Get the fuck away from the gate, piss ant!” to which the young fool shot Big Joe his middle finger which resulted in the acute and permanent amputation of the offending appendage that Joe later nailed to the inside door of his apartment.
There is no excuse for indiscriminate violence but it is better than leaving any discretion to Big Joe, hence my standing Daily Order #11 – “Kick anyone’s ass who shows up at this gate without an appointment. We’ll apologize or pay off the innocent later.”
It sounds easy, but for Big Joe everything can be difficult and is.
This week was no exception.
A well-dressed gringo in a dark suit appeared at the gate on Tuesday morning. Without reading the welcome message, he pushed the button. Joe stirred and looked out his window that hangs like a turret over the only entry and exit to the property.
“Can you fucking read?” Joe barked out the window.
The gringo looked up but said nothing.
“Can you fucking hear?” Joe taunted.
“Do you have a fucking appointment?” he growled.
The gringo shook his head and reached inside his jacket. Joe beat him the draw with the Israeli Military Industries .50 AE Desert Eagle I gave him for his last birthday.
“Let me see your hands or lose your head, numb nuts!” Joe had lost all sense of humor.
Our new friend slowly removed his hand from the inside of his suit coat, displaying a badge. “I am from the U.S. government,” he said authoritatively. “I want to speak to Mr. Karger.”
Joe hesitated. He had seen well-dressed men with badges before, long before my teachings, and had developed the bad habit of being deferential in face of law enforcement that for years made his life miserable if only because they didn’t appreciate his lifestyle – a crime in progress.
Joe lowered the pistol and rang the main house.
“What is it, Joe?” I snapped.
“There is a guy down here with a badge . . . a gringo with a badge . . . says he needs to talk to you.”
I paused and stared at one of the 60” flat panels in my office. I could see the badge in question and the chagrin on our putative visitor’s face resulting from having a barely-literate 300-pound freak not give him what he wanted when he wanted it. Government types get their jollies by having people fall all over themselves trying to comply for reasons I’ve never understood.
“Joe,” I asked calmly, “Did you read the Standing Orders this morning?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Jim. I read them every morning just like you taught me.”
“Did you read Standing Order Number 11, Joe?” now with an edge in my voice he didn’t miss.
“Uh, well, yes Mr. Jim, I did.”
“What does it say?” I continued.
“Uh, well, it say to kick the ass of anyone without an appointment on your book.”
Close enough, I thought.
“Did you read the exception that applies to law enforcement or government officials, Joe?” I snarled.
“No, no sir. I didn’t,” he replied, now nervous, sensing correctly this would result in my beating his ass and soon.
“No, Joe, you didn’t read that exception because that exception does not exist.”
He said nothing.
“Do your fucking job, Joe! I pay you 100,000 dollars a year to head my security team, plus dental, of course. I expect more.” I hung up the phone, leaned back in my Aeron chair, and watched the screen.
It was a matter of seconds before the electronic gate flew open. Joe was pissed off, if only because he knew he had disappointed me. He hates to disappoint me.
Government gringo still had his hand extended displaying his shiny badge -- his key to the kingdom, or so he thought.
Joe lowered his head and buried it deep in government-gringo’s solar plexus. The pain was palpable, but what I noticed was the combination of shock and fear in government gringo’s eyes – shocked that his badge didn’t get him what he wanted – me - and fear that Big Joe wasn’t finished.
He was right on both counts.
From a completely prone position, spitting blood, he raised his badge hand, now sans badge, and sputtered, “I am a government official. I . . . “
“You fuckin’ with the wrong nigga!’” Joe cut him off and then proceeded to stomp him mercilessly.
I was gently amused because Joe is not black, then returned to my trading screen, turned up the music, and wrote the whole incident off to a jurisdictional error, theirs.
Joe was appropriately punished and later that day humbly offered his written resignation, one that I declined and then made him eat.
. . in San Antonio, Texas tonight.
All went as planned until a small "incident" at the border, a story I will save for later.
Just know a minor infraction resulted in the altogether wrongful seizure of the SUV, the weapons and the whiskey, all of which I can understand, if not appreciate.
But they also seized Big Joe. Something about "wanton and gross physical assault against a peace officer." Which is wrong. It should have read "peace officers," plural.
That I cannot tolerate. Big Joe deserves to be incarcerated for numerous offenses, no defense, including spitting the ear of a Border Patrol officer on the ground and then dancing on it like a wild Indian.
But that is not the point.
The head of Team Karger security cannot perform his solemn duties behind bars. And so it shall not stand. He'll be out by 10 in the morning, so say my high-powered attorneys who are flying in from Denver tonight.
The reason for this memo is to tell you that my cell phone was not exactly seized, they say, but it is also not in my possession.
Which means two things . . . if you receive a call from the BATF, ignore it. It isn't me. And, once I retrieve Big Joe I'll score another phone, continue the journey, and let a chosen few know the number.
In the meantime, there's e-mail . . .
The following is the actual transcript of a hearing this morning, complete with marginal notes of the court reporter.
Judge: "State of Texas versus 'Big Joe'? Does 'Big Joe' have a last name?"
Attorney: "No, your honor."
Judge: "Why not?"
Karger: "A good question, but not relevant. May I interject, your honor?"
Judge: "Who are you?"
Karger: "I am Big Joe's employer, his mentor, his putative father, and his perpetual prosector and critic."
Judge: "Do you understand, sir, that he has been charged with a serious violent crime?"
Karger: "Absolutely, your honor, and as a witness to the entire sordid affair I can tell you that he is guilty. Guilty. Actually, very guilty."
[Big Joe squirms in his seat, to which he has been handcuffed.]
Judge: "Does Big Joe want to plead guilty?"
Karger: "Of course not, your honor. This man is Director of Security at Team Karger, and a very valuable asset to our organization."
Judge: "It says here he chewed the ear off a federal border security agent."
Karger: "Yes, that is true in the grossest sense of the term, but he really didn't chew it off. He put it in his mouth and ripped it off, a completely different offense under international law. Besides, I request leniency since he spit it out as soon as he realized he'd made a mistake."
Judge: [Judge peers over reading glasses skeptically.] "And when did Big Joe realize he made a mistake?"
Karger: "When I did this." [Karger displays Taser.]
Judge: "What do you mean?"
Karger: "This." [Raising the Taser Karger fires barb at point blank range into Big Joe's forehead and administers a 100,000 volt charge.]
Big Joe: "Ayeeeee!" [Big Joe falls out of chair, lying face up, eyes fixed, still connected by a single handcuff.]
Judge: "Jesus Christ! What are you doing?"
Karger: "Your honor, I am administering the equitable punishment Big Joe so richly deserves in order to provide a public service and to avoid the necessity of this court having to act further on the baseless 'chewing charge.'"
Judge: [Pauses, considers, removes reading glasses.] "Mr. Karger, I recognize you. You are as buff as your photos. And, may I add that I have admired Team Karger for years? Indeed, I have the t-shirt and a complete set of Team Karger coffee mugs. And now I know why. You are a patriot with the Good of the Many in mind."
Karger: [Administers second 100,000 volt charge.]
Big Joe: Ayeee!!!
Judge: "Is that really necessary, Mr. Karger?"
Karger: "Yes. Yes it is, your honor."
Judge: "OK then."
Judge: [Contemplating, pausing, putting back on reading glasses.] "Case dismissed."
Prosecutor: [Standing.] You can't be serious, Judge! [Pointing to one-eared Border Patrol agent seated next to him.] "What about his ear!?"
Karger: "Point well taken." [Karger reaches into fanny pack, pulls out .40 cal. Glock with laser sight, sets it on defense bench, and pulls out what appears to be a human ear.] "I have it right here and I want the record to reflect that I am presenting the ear in question to the only person in this courtroom who appears to be missing an ear and the ear that I am tendering does not appear chewed." [Slight applause from gallery. Karger walks to complainant and offers ear.]
Border Patrol Agent (one-eared): "Fuck you!"
Karger: "Objection, your honor, foul language."
Prosecutor: "What??"
Karger: [To Prosecutor] "Which word didn't you understand?"
Judge: "Objection sustained! [Staring angrily at one-eared Border Patrol agent.] 30 days in jail for contempt of court!"
Border Agent: "What?"
Judge: "Take the one-eared man into custody, Mr. Bailiff."
Border Agent: "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Judge: "Make that 60 days." [Judge pauses, clearly unsure of himself.] "What do you think, Mr. Karger?"
Karger: "You have a keen sense of justice, your honor, but part of our responsibility as men of the cloth is to show mercy. Make it 45."
Judge: " 45 days it is! Get him out of my sight!" [Slams gavel. Gavel end flies off into gallery injuring child.]
Karger: [Smiles.]
Judge: [Returns smile and giggles.] "That was funny, wasn't it, Jim? May I call you 'Jim'?" [Still giggling. Child screams in background.]
Karger: "You have a great sense of humor, Judge. When you finish your stint on the bench, I want you to apply for a position with Team Karger. We need people with that rare combination of justice and humor. You know, like Pol Pot. And, no, you may not call me 'Jim.'"
Judge: "Sorry. I want to thank you, Mr. Karger, most sincerely. You are a gentleman and a scholar and, if I might add the obvious, 'The Greatest Man In America.'"
Karger: "Your honor, your kind comment is both valued and appreciated, even if obvious. I will remove Big Joe from your sight now and can assure you that you will never see him again, at least until you come to work for us."
Judge: "Of course." [Slams headless gavel on bench. Remainder of gavel flies into gallery striking same child.]
[Karger smiles knowingly and begins to leave courtroom with Attorney, Big Joe and chair to which Big Joe is attached, passing injured child.]
Karger: [Stops and pats injured child on head and speaks to gallery.] "There are many people who have gone on to great things after being blinded in the left eye by a flying gavel. I can't think of any off hand but you can take my word for it." [Polite applause.]
Court Reporter: [Leaves chair and approaches Karger, breathless.] "Mr. Karger would you sign my copy of this transcript?" [Court report lays transcript on chair next to injured child.]
Karger: [Smiles knowingly, reaches into pocket, removes 18k gold Mont Blanc pen, collectors' series, removes cap, raises pen and stabs court reporter in right hand, pinning hand with pen to empty chair next to injured child, now going into shock.] "No, but do keep the pen."
[More polite applause from gallery.]
[Karger raises middle finger as he, his Attorney, Big Joe and chair to which Big Joe is attached leave the courtroom.]
I snap-kicked Big Joe in the nuts a few minutes ago . . .
I had no choice.
Well, I did have a choice and my choice was to snap-kick him in the nuts and I intend to put this account of events into his personnel file.
We arrived home last Saturday after sorting out the unfortunate border incident. I have been relaxing, working out, and pondering my next move.
This morning I went to the gate – the gate that is the only entrance and exit to the Team Karger©® San Miguel Compound, a place I call home, mostly because it is home.
Joe’s two-story apartment is built into a corner that overlooks the entrance, a place he can separate legitimate visitors, of which there are none, from everyone else. And, everyone else who wants in or pauses too long gets their asses kicked by Big Joe.
It is not a difficult job but it is his job and his job is worth a hundred thousand dollars a year to me (plus medical and dental). Which means I expect it to be done right. I expect Big Joe to exercise focus, if not control.
And, once again I was disappointed.
The door to Big Joe’s apartment was closed, but not locked, and I let myself in. I could hear him upstairs rustling around and I assumed he was cleaning his new Remington 6 + 1 12 Gauge 2/18" Cylinder Bore Barrel tactical shotgun, the one I bought him in San Antonio because he seemed down about almost going to prison for ripping the ear off that border agent.
But Joe wasn’t working with his new shotgun. No, he wasn’t.
Instead, he was signing Rock Star energy drink cans with a large black felt marker. There must have been fifty cans on the floor, some empty, some full. It appears he would drink one and then sign it, drink another, sign it, a crude assembly line of sorts.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I barked.
“I’m a rock star,” he said, giddy.
“You’re not a rock star, Joe. You’re an idiot,” I observed matter-of-factly.
“I’m famous, Mister Jim!” he said, anxious.
“Yeah,” he continued. “You made me famous, Mister Jim! People recognize me on the street now and the otha’ day I was drinkin’ one of these here Rock Star drinks and a gal comes up to me and offers me fifty dollars to sign it and give it to her. And, and, you know what I did, Mister Jim?” he asked, hoping against hope he would receive my critical imprimatur.
“Let me guess,” I replied. “You gave it to her.”
“Right, Mister Jim. That’s right! I gave it to her and she greases me with a nice crisp fifty.” He got up out of his signing-seat and pulled his wallet out and produced a fifty-dollar bill as if it was some kind of evidence.
I nodded knowingly and thought . . .
And then I leaned back and snapped kicked him right in the nuts. He stood there for just a moment before things began to fall apart in his world – eyes unfocused, weak knees, followed by the second hit – him hitting the floor, face-first. (As a parenthetical aside, my snap-kick has been timed at over 80 miles and hour. That’s like getting hit by a major league curveball, except the ball weighs 165 pounds.)
I could hear him moaning and his head, still face down, was turning side to side involuntarily. I waited for him to gain his composure and got down on one knee beside him and whispered.
“Joe, you are the Director of Security for all of Team Karger©®. I pay you a lot of money to protect me from the hundreds, maybe thousands of scumbags who want to kill me, many with good reason.”
I paused. “Do you understand?”
He said nothing but nodded his head, face still to the floor.
“Good, very good. Now, if you want to sign soda pop cans for a living, you can do that. But you can’t do that and be my personal bodyguard and protector of the Team Karger©® compound, as well as supervising all the bartenders and pool girls.”
I paused again. “Do you understand that?”
Again, he nodded, and I believed that Joe understood. And, to make sure he didn’t forget, I got up, positioned myself carefully, and then snap kicked his nuts again from behind while he lay in the floor. I have never heard that sound come out of a human being before so I won’t bother trying to describe it here.
Suffice it to say that I will walk down to the gate tomorrow morning and Joe will be cleaning his new shotgun, getting ready for some test firing, and I will be pleased.
I returned from Las Vegas last night and a series of late night discussions with those in know about the endgame -- recession, depression, and hyper-inflation all shot through a fine whiskey-prism.
For most, being right on how we lose will determine the few who will win and whether one orders steak tartar or waits in a soup line and fights a toothless hag for their one meal that day. For me it is about posturing correctly to haggle over the ruins.
Big Joe was waiting outside the Leon airport in a no parking zone idling the flat-black Suburban he uses for high-speed airport runs. The beast has a 454 with high compression heads, radical cam, run-flat tires, darker than legal glass, and two gun mounts between the front seats, complete with matching Benelli M4 tactical shotguns, each with an eight-round magazine and fitted with a three-position telescopic stock. Extra ammo is enclosed in custom stainless containers below the seats. I consider them as essential as seat belts.
Joe saw me as I approached the vehicle; hit the door locks, got out, took my bag, put it in the back seat and opened my door.
“Welcome back, Mr. Jim. Need to tell you about some shit that went down yester . . .”
“Shut up, Joe. I’m tired. I don’t want to hear it.”
“But, this was not my fault . . .”
“Joe,” I barked, “of course it was your fault. Everything is your fault.”
He shrugged his shoulders, closed my door, walked around the front of the vehicle and got in.
I could see he was agitated which didn’t make it any different than every time I see Joe, but this time something was different. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, until I did.
“Did I hurt your feelings, Joe?”
He bristled but said nothing and headed out of the airport at 50 miles an hour over the posted speed limit.
“I hurt your feelings.” I smiled. “I’m sorry,” I added insincerely.
“Really, Mr. Jim? You are sorry?”
“Really, Joe, I am sorry,” I lied. “I have a lot on my mind right now -- the world falling apart like a cheap suit and how I am going to profit from the misery of others.”
He had no idea what I was talking about but was excited that he might actually have my sympathy.
“Well, it’s not a problem, Mr. Jim. No sir. I just wanted to tell you about this dude who . . .”
“Not now, Joe! I know that given an opportunity you’re going to tell me about someone who did you wrong and you fucked him up real good and now the cops or process servers, or both, are after you. And, frankly, I’m tired of that story. If you’re looking for sympathy, you’ll find it between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.”
I thought a moment and then whispered softly, “What I want to talk about tonight, Joe, is happiness.”
I paused and stared across the darkness that separated us, punctuated only by the LED dash lighting.
“Are you happy, Joe?” I asked.
“God damned right I’m happy, Mr. Jim! You took my dumb ass of the streets of east L.A. where I might have had another six months to live and . . ..
“Three months,” I interrupted.
“What?”
“Three months to live, if you were lucky and you’re aren’t lucky. But, I digress, please continue.”
“Well, Mr. Jim, you are the best boss anyone could ever want, period,” Joe stated flatly, as if he was looking for someone who was not there to disagree with him so he could kick their ass.
“Joe,” I shook my head knowingly, “to the contrary, I am an asshole, a real prick. I regularly light you up you with a fucking Taser for no good or apparent reason. I am a terrible boss, which is why I have to pay you and others so well to stay around. That’s not why you’re happy.”
“Uh, well . . .”
“Think Joe. Think, God damned it! Why are you happy? Take your time.”
“Uh, uh . . .”
“Let me help you. Are you afraid of anything, Joe?”
“Hell no.”
“Are you worried about anything?”
“Nope.”
“Does it bother you when people point and laugh at you?”
“Before or after I stomp them?” he asked, seriously.
“Before and after,” I replied.
“No, not really,” he answered matter-of-factly.
“Then, one more time, Joe. What makes you happy?”
He paused as we drove at top speed along the rain slick road from the airport into Guanajuato. He said nothing for five minutes, maybe more, but I could tell he was deep into the question, at least a deep as Joe can get into any question.
Then, he penetrated the silence . . .
“Well, Mr. Jim, the way I see it is this,” he said. “Being happy means not giving a shit.”
He paused and looked over at me as if to emphasize the next point.
“Happiness is not giving a shit about anything,” he emphasized.
I was stunned. I have never heard Big Joe say anything intelligent until that night but even a blind pig finds and acorn now and then. This was Big Joe’s acorn.
I flipped on the satellite radio and listened to Tom Petty at top volume the rest of the way home and just thought. As the gates to the compound opened, I told Joe to stop and I got out of the Suburban.
“You don’t want to me take you up to the house, Mr. Jim?” he asked.
“No, Joe. I’ll walk.”
“You want a shotgun?” he said, reaching for a Benelli.
“No, not really.”
“Why not, Mr. Jim?”
“Because tonight, Joe, I am happy.”
He smiled and nodded but said nothing and I walked up the drive in the rain.
“We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm." - George Orwell
Orwell was right, of course, but most ignore it and go to bed with nothing more than hope that they will wake up the next morning.
Not that there is anything wrong with hope, except when someone is waving a pistol in your face.
Example 1 (Using Hope):
“Give me your wallet!”
“No. My hope won’t let you take it.”
BAAM!
You’re dead.
Example 2 (Using .380 Ruger instead of Hope):
“Give me your wallet!”
“OK, here it is.”
BAAM! BAAM!
He’s dead.
Exam question: Which result is better?
Correct answer: The .380 trumps hope by one point, the only point that matters – your life.
Others comfort themselves knowing the police are out there, somewhere. They never figured out that the police are never there when a crime is committed. If they were there, the bad guys would go somewhere the cops weren’t – someplace like your house.
Rule #32: A cop is good for one thing – somebody to tell your story of how you became another victim. Then he’ll take your statement and shit can it on the way to the donut shop.
Which brings me to Big Joe who is sitting on the second floor of his casita that overlooks the lone gate into the Team Karger compound.
I can see him on the 60-inch LED screen that hangs on the wall that faces my desk in the main house. He is busy cleaning a matching pair of .40 caliber Glocks, one of which he carries in a small of the back holster and the other that he straps to his ankle. One magazine is filled with +P+ hollow points for run of the mill security issues. The other carries Black Talons --- Teflon coated ammunition known as “cop killers” because they will penetrate most body armor. Black Talons have long been illegal in most every country in the world, an irrelevant fact since Joe has 20 cases of it locked in his gun safe.
Joe has his own set of cameras that he or one of his people monitors 24 hours a day. They provide complete coverage of the walls that fortify the compound here in San Miguel de Allende, day and night. For most homeowners, walls only slow people down long enough for their cameras to record the crime which the victim then dutifully delivers to the police who are impressed with the video quality and then shit can it as soon as they walk out the door.
The cameras and walls that surround Team Karger are here for a different purpose -- to slow down the bad guys just long enough for the hunters to become the hunted. Big Joe has caught more than one felon coming over a wall and he was waiting patiently as they felt earth under their feet exactly one second before they felt Big Joe’s ham-fist crush their faces.
You see, Joe doesn’t hope he’ll catch a perpetrator. He knows he will because he follows the Rules:
Rule #65: Never attempt to scare off a would-be thief. It will just encourage them to try again. Always apprehend.
Rule #68: When you catch a perpetrator, remember: there is no due process, no equal protection, no rights of any kind except the absolute right to be brutally stomped and then thrown back over the wall. Exception (b)(1)(a): If the perpetrator is carrying a weapon – BAAM! BAAM! Always double-tap. There should only be one witness to how his lifeless body got to be that way.
We are not much on rules here at Team Karger, but those are a few of the big ones and they are why I am going to get some sun this afternoon and watch the sunset over the mountains that gracefully interrupt the horizon, for I know that “rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm.”
Selah.